From Hell to Heaven

by Barbara Cartland

  Then there were tears both in her eyes and her voice as she said to the Marquis,

  “Is this true? Really – true that I am here and will be your Ward? To live in this – wonderful – magnificent house?”

  “It is true.”

  “How can I thank you – except by asking – God to do that for me.”

  “You have thanked me,” the Marquis said firmly. “Too many protestations of gratitude will make me embarrassed, so I would prefer it, Kistna, if you give your thanks in actions and not in words.”

  “How can I – do that?”

  “By doing exactly what I tell you and by putting some flesh on your bones as quickly as possible.”

  Kistna gave a little laugh.

  “That is exactly what Mrs. Dawes said to me and she has already made me drink two huge glasses of milk since I arrived!”

  “You will find that Mrs. Dawes invariably knows best,” the Marquis said, “and, as I also like having my own way, you must do exactly as we tell you.”

  “You know I want to – please you,” Kistna replied simply.

  When she left them, the Marquis turned to Peregrine with a smile on his face.

  “What do think of our protégée so far,” he enquired.

  “She is definitely intelligent,” Peregrine answered. “I am just wondering how long it will be before she puts, as you said, some flesh on her bones.”

  “Clothes will make a huge difference and will give her confidence.”

  “I know you are an expert on what clothes mean to a woman,” Peregrine teased, “but I think where Kistna is concerned it will not only be her looks that count but her character.”

  The Marquis held up his hand in protest.

  “Oh, for Goodness sake!” he ejaculated, “The last thing we want is a girl with character! What we require is a nice complacent creature, who will do exactly what we tell her and will accept the idea of marrying Branscombe as being a gift from Heaven itself!”

  Peregrine was silent for a moment.

  Then he said,

  “I think that Kistna is different from the average girl. She has lived in India with her father and mother and she has certainly suffered in England. I doubt if she will ever be the fat complacent cow that you are imagining in the part you wish her to play.”

  “Very well then,” the Marquis said as if he must defend himself. “She is intelligent and therefore when we come to the point of telling her exactly what she has to do and that she has to pretend to be Mirabelle, she will see at once that it is very much to her advantage. Even being Branscombe’s wife is preferable to being starved to death in an orphanage.”

  “I am sure if she gives her mind to it, she will be admirable in the part,” Peregrine replied. “I am only wondering if she will have an opinion in the matter.”

  “If she has an opinion, it will be to thank her lucky stars that she will live in extreme comfort for the rest of her life and that, if Branscombe is angry at being deceived, there will be nothing he can do about it.”

  The Marquis spoke sharply.

  Peregrine decided that there was no point in continuing the conversation and suggested that they went riding.

  When they returned several hours later, it was to find that the dressmaker had arrived and was waiting to see the Marquis.

  She was a hard-faced clever woman who had made her business one of the most successful in Bond Street.

  The Marquis had in the past accompanied a number of his mistresses and his social chères amies to Madame Yvonne’s dress shop.

  She was known to be discreet and she never made the mistake of letting the woman the Marquis was providing with an expensive gown be aware that she had served him on other occasions.

  Now she dropped him a curtsey and waited politely for him to give her his orders.

  “I want you, madame, to dress my Ward in the very latest creations,” he said, “and provide her with a wardrobe that will excel that of every other debutante in Society.”

  Madame Yvonne could not conceal the glint of excitement in her eyes, but she replied in a quiet tone,

  “I will, as usual, do my very best to please your Lordship.”

  “There is one condition attached to this order.”

  “Yes, my Lord?”

  “It is that for the moment I do not wish anyone in London to know that my Ward is here with me at the Abbey.”

  He saw the surprise in Madame Yvonne’s expression and went on,

  “You will understand when I explain that Miss Kistna has been ill and nothing could be more of a handicap for a young girl than to be thought to have ill-health or to suffer from temporary or permanent ailments, whatever they may be.”

  Madame Yvonne nodded her agreement and the Marquis continued,

  “That is why, madame, I have no intention of allowing anyone to know that my Ward is here until she is well enough to grace your gowns and the ballrooms where she will appear in them.”

  “Of course, I understand, my Lord,” Madame Yvonne said, “and I promise that not a word about the young lady will pass my lips.”

  “Thank you,” the Marquis said, “and now make sure that everything which you provide is of the finest and best quality.”

  He paused before he added,

  “My Ward is a great heiress and there is no need to cheesepare in any manner.”

  As he spoke, he knew that this meant he would doubtless be overcharged on a great number of items on the bill.

  At the same time he had planted the idea in Madame Yvonne’s mind that Kistna was an heiress and he suspected that later that she would not be able to prevent herself from just dropping a hint to those in the Social world that his Ward was very rich.

  It all fitted in like a puzzle to the general plan, the Marquis thought, and congratulated himself on his eye for detail.

  He decided to tell Mrs Dawes that quite a number of gowns would be left for Kistna today and others would be arriving almost daily as soon as they were ready.

  “What does Miss Kistna feel about her new clothes?” the Marquis asked.

  “I’ve never seen a young lady so excited or so thrilled with the gowns that Madame Yvonne brought her,” Mrs. Dawes replied. “In fact, now the excitement’s over, I’ve put her to bed and I’ll be exceedingly surprised if she’s not fast asleep, my Lord, and sleeping like a child from sheer exhaustion!”

  “I knew I could leave her in your capable hands, Mrs. Dawes,” the Marquis said and the housekeeper was delighted with the compliment.

  He did not see Kistna again until she came down to dinner that evening, when she certainly looked very different from the ragged orphan he had first met.

  As she was so pale and obviously anaemic from lack of food, Madame Yvonne had not dressed her immediately in the traditional white of a debutante.

  Her gown was of soft periwinkle blue and its full skirt and large balloon-like sleeves concealed the skeleton-like slimness of her figure.

  There was little that could be done about her face except to add a little rouge to her cheeks.

  But either Mrs. Dawes or one of the housemaids had concealed Kistna’s lank hair with skilfully arranged bows of satin ribbon that matched her gown.

  There was a narrow band of velvet in the same colour to encircle her long neck.

  She came into the salon a little shyly where the Marquis and Peregrine were waiting and, as she walked towards them, they both saw that the Marquis had been right in thinking that clothes could change a woman.

  He felt that, because she was so thin and therefore very light, Kistna walked with a special grace that reminded him in a strangely poetical manner of a flower moving in the breeze.

  When she smiled at him, he saw that Madame Yvonne had advised her to wear a little lip salve that certainly prevented her lips from looking so pale and bloodless.

  “Fine feathers make fine birds!” Peregrine commented before the Marquis could speak.

  “That is what I – hoped you would – say,” Kistna r
eplied with a little laugh, “and I do indeed feel like a peacock spreading my tail in this beautiful gown.”

  She glanced at the Marquis and said in a low voice almost as if she spoke to him alone,

  “I want to – thank you – ”

  “I have told you, I dislike being thanked.”

  He thought as he spoke that he had never in his whole life seen such an expression of overwhelming gratitude in a woman’s eyes.

  He remembered how offhand Lady Isobel had been about a diamond necklace she had wanted for Christmas and, when he had given it to her, she had complained that he had omitted to purchase the bracelet that went with it.

  He remembered too other jewels that he had given to attractive Cyprians whom he had installed in one of his houses in Chelsea in the manner that was expected by their profession.

  They had extorted everything they could from him and, as Peregrine had said, ‘had a magnet that drew the gold coins out of his pockets.’ But their gratitude had always sounded contrived.

  It struck the Marquis as rather touching that this girl had such a joyous delight in being well dressed and, as he met her eyes, he found himself thinking that it was a pity in a way that there had to be an ulterior motive for giving her the clothes.

  Then he told himself that this was not a moment for becoming sentimental. Besides they had a long way to go before he was ready to cheat the Earl as he had been cheated.

  Merely to think of it made the Marquis scowl, although he had no idea that he was doing so, until Kistna said in a frightened little voice,

  “You are – angry? Is it – something I have – said or – done?”

  “No, of course not!” the Marquis replied, “and I hope never to be angry with you or make you afraid that I might be.”

  “I should be very – very afraid if you were – angry with me.”

  “You would have reason to be,” Peregrine interposed, “for I assure you that the Marquis can be very overpowering when he is in a rage and what makes it worse is that he never raises his voice.”

  Kistna gave a nervous little laugh.

  “I agree – that is much worse than someone – who shouts.”

  She paused before she went on,

  “Papa was never angry if someone did anything wrong. He was only hurt and upset and that – made one penitent immediately.”

  “How do you behave when you are angry?” Peregrine asked.

  “Sometimes I lose my temper,” Kistna admitted, “but it is over quickly and then I am sorry – very very sorry – and want to apologise.”

  “That is the right and generous way to behave,” Peregrine approved.

  “I am sure that I could never be angry in such beautiful surroundings as these,” Kistna said. “There are two things that make people angry – ugliness and injustice.”

  “Particularly injustice,” the Marquis remarked in a hard voice.

  Once again he was thinking of the Earl and, as if Peregrine thought that it was a mistake for his mind to dwell on his enemy, he quickly changed the subject and when they walked into dinner all three were laughing.

  To Kistna it was a fascination that she had never known before, not only to dine in such luxurious surroundings but to eat food that she thought must taste like the ambrosia of the Gods.

  There was also an enchantment she found hard to express to be alone with two such distinguished, elegant and delightful gentlemen.

  Thinking back into the past, she knew that her father had always seemed rather serious, although he laughed when they were together as a family and there was a warmth and love in everything they said to each other.

  But it was not the same as listening to two Gentlemen of Fashion who exchanged witticisms almost as if they duelled with each other not with swords but with words, and every cut and thrust of their tongues had a subtle meaning.

  Because Kistna felt that over the last three years she had been starved not only of food for her body but of food for her brain, she found every moment that she listened to the Marquis and his friend as stimulating as any lesson she might have been given by the most experienced teacher.

  Because she was no longer hungry, she could appreciate the subtlety of a word, of a turn of phrase and concentrate on the Marquis and his friend without her mind slipping away as it would have done a few days ago.

  Sometimes they talked to her, but more often they appeared to forget that she was with them.

  They discussed sport or their acquaintances with the freedom of two men who were so close to each other that much of what they said had no need for elaboration.

  Peregrine talked to the Marquis of his chances of winning the Gold Cup at Ascot. Then he asked as if he suddenly remembered Kistna’s presence,

  “Are you fond of horses?”

  “I love them!” Kistna replied. “But I have never had a chance of riding the sort of horses you are talking about. All we could afford in India were the small-boned little animals, which were very spirited and often bolted in a way that was almost impossible to control.”

  The Marquis smiled.

  “Do I understand that you are longing to ride one of my horses?”

  Kistna gave a little cry.

  “Please – please – could I have a habit? Then perhaps you would – allow me to ride with you and Mr. Wallingham.”

  “I have ordered you two habits, as it happens,” the Marquis replied, “and they are what you will need for the summer. You will require something warmer when winter comes.”

  Instead of thanking him he saw that Kistna was staring at him with a look of bewilderment.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “I cannot understand how you can know – exactly what a woman needs. Madame Yvonne was saying today that you have such excellent taste and I wonder how, as you are – unmarried, you have learned about gowns, bonnets and even habits?”

  There was a pause as the Marquis wondered how he should reply to such an artless question.

  He was well aware that Peregrine’s eyes were twinkling and that he had been as surprised by it as he was himself.

  Kistna was waiting for his answer and after a moment he said,

  “I may be a bachelor, but I have a large number of female relatives.”

  “Oh – of course! I never thought of that!” she exclaimed. “Mrs. Dawes told me that your mother was very very beautiful and I expect that she taught you about how much clothes mean to a woman, especially someone like me – who has never had any.”

  The Marquis glanced across the table at Peregrine and without speaking dared him ever to tease him about this conversation.

  Then, as if she sensed what they were thinking, Kistna looked from one to the other and asked,

  “H-have I said – something wrong? Was it – incorrect of me to – question his Lordship’s knowledge of what – pleases a lady?”

  “No, of course not!” Peregrine said reassuringly. “When you know the Marquis better, you will find that he is extremely knowledgeable on every subject, whether it appertains to women or horses.”

  “There is so much I want to learn about horses,” Kistna cried and the awkward moment passed.

  After dinner the Marquis and Peregrine played piquet, gambling fiercely against each other and betting large sums on each game.

  Kistna watched them for a little while and then she moved down the salon looking at the objets d’art, which were extremely valuable, and the paintings each of which held her attention for a long time.

  The game finished and the Marquis walked across the room to stand beside her.

  He found that she was gazing at a very beautiful Poussin where nymphs gambolled in the foreground against a forest glade and misty mountains.

  “Do you like that picture?” he enquired.

  “It is – difficult to put into words – what I feel about it,” Kistna said in a rapt little voice.

  The Marquis was interested.

  “I would like you to tell me, however difficult it may be, what you
feel.”

  She did not answer for a moment and then she said,

  “When we were in India, there were many strange carvings on the Temples that shocked the English and they complained to Papa.”

  “What did your father do about them?”

  “I asked him what he was going to do,” Kistna said, “and he told me that he tried to understand why the Indians had carved – such erotic figures on what to them was a place of sanctity.”

  She looked up at the Marquis to see if he was listening and went on,

  “Papa said that each Indian craftsman used the life force within himself to create through his fingers something that to him expressed his faith and his belief.”

  She paused and again looked at the Marquis, this time a little appealingly.

  “I am not explaining it well,” she said, “but I think that Papa was trying to say that each man who creates anything to which he gives his heart, is like God and is, in his own way, a creator.”

  “I have never heard that theory before,” the Marquis commented.

  “You asked me what I felt about this picture,” Kistna went on, “and I feel that Nicholas Poussin poured his own life force into it and it is therefore a creation, not so much of his mind as of his soul and his heart.”

  The Marquis stared at her in sheer astonishment.

  It seemed to him incredible that this girl, whom he still thought of as an inmate of the orphanage, could not only think so profoundly but could express herself so ably in a way that he might himself have found difficult.

  “Do all pictures make you feel like that?” he enquired.

  “I have never seen a picture like this before,” she said, “nor like any of the others here in this room. But India is full of pictures and India itself is – sheer beauty.”

  “You speak as if you miss it.”

  “I miss the happiness I knew there and, because it is the only beautiful thing I have had to think of these last few years, it is very vivid in my mind and very real.”

  The Marquis could understand that the only way she could escape from the horror of her surroundings was through her imagination and her memories of the past.

  Because she made him feel sentimental, he said sharply,